


Wretched and Divine

by Zeeskeit_ceirtlin



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Arranged Marriage, Batman: Contagion (DCU), Dubious Consent, Forced Feminization, Human Sacrifice, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Intersex Omegas, M/M, Omega Tim Drake, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalypse, Religious Cults, The Clench (DC comics), The League of Assassins (DCU)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:33:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29481498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeeskeit_ceirtlin/pseuds/Zeeskeit_ceirtlin
Summary: For Ra’sTim week 2021Tim volunteers as the sacrificial bride of a Dread God in order to save his loved ones and the land itself from a deadly plague. His expectations don’t quite match the outcome.Ra’s al Ghul doesn’t care much for mortals, but this particular sacrifice proves to be just the thing he needed to alleviate his boredom, and offers the potential for far more than the boy realizes he has to give.Hades and Persephone meets Bride of the Water God, with a few fun twists of my own devising.
Relationships: Jack Drake/Janet Drake/Dana Winters, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Dana Winters, Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65
Collections: Ra'sTim Week 2021





	Wretched and Divine

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1: Arranged/Forced Marriage
> 
> This does deal with the topic of a plague in the first chapter, but it relates to the Clench/The Apocalypse Virus from Contagion, and is mostly just background set dressing. I started working on this fic as a WIP before covid hit, and this is in no way meant to parallel to the real life Coronavirus. I purposely avoided graphic descriptions of the disease’s effects beyond brief descriptions of fevers and crying blood that are taken right out of comics canon.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Tim, like any omega, has long had thoughts about what his future wedding day would entail. He had never quite thought it would be some fairy-tale wonder or a statement of overflowing love and joyous laughter like some others, he is far too logical for that.

Tim knows his parents did intend to give him a choice in his prospects. He had expected that in a few year’s time, he would pick someone he liked well enough that met their approval and have a tasteful wedding with both their families and friends. For all their flaws and the bitterness he feels remembering how distant they were until their last breaths, he knows his parents did ultimately want the best for him, not just to use him as a pawn to advance their power.

Tim aches inside with regret, knowing neither Jack nor Janet would have been happy about the choice he is making now. For the greater good or not, volunteering as the sacrificial bride of a Dread God was something they would have protested on principle. But needs must, and what is his life and freedom worth compared to the safety and happiness of his remaining loved ones, especially when his sacrifice may well save hundreds of thousands?

He and Stephanie rise before the dawn breaks, and ride together in silence in a hired carriage, hands clasped tightly as they look ahead towards the temple walls. Stephanie’s face is concealed by a scarf as per the current mandate of the healing halls, and her bright blonde hair is tucked away under a hooded cloak to keep the guards from paying her any mind and recognizing her as the originally chosen Divine Bride.

The sedate pace of their progress means that they have far too long to sit in relative quiet, every breath tasting like ashes on Tim’s tongue and the hitches of Stephanie’s breath after days of crying. The hand not holding his in a death grip rests over her belly, where her coat hides the way it has begun to swell from sight. Tim supposes it serves as a reminder of why this has all been necessary, and chooses not to call attention to it.

Tim can feel as the carriage exits the main market roads and enters the temple district, the driver having the horses pick up the pace now that the streets are slightly less cluttered. At long last, he turns to Stephanie, who is staring into her lap despairingly. He takes a deep breath, and she snaps to attention, looking at him with red-rimmed eyes blown wide.

“You don’t need to feel guilty,” he reminds her, and she winces, grimacing and looking away again. “You didn’t force this on me, I offered to do this freely and I don’t regret it.”

“I still wish there was another way, Tim.”

“It’s the best option we have right now—”

“You mean the only option that isn’t fleeing Gotham in the night or having me punished for being an unwed mother that dared set foot on the temple grounds?” She spits out the words angrily, twisting the fabric beneath her fingers and gritting her teeth.

_“Stephanie.”_

“Fine.” She pauses for a long moment. “You’re sure this will work?”

“I spent the last three days ensuring it will,” Tim assures her, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “Don’t you trust me?” He tries for a smile, but it falls flat, feeling fake and strained on his face.

Stephanie’s breath catches in her throat as she looks at him despairingly and chokes down a sob. Tim holds her gaze strongly, even as his hands tremble.

“Once I leave, remember to go to the barrister’s office. The letters I gave you will ensure she makes the amendments to the will, and bar anyone from interference with the Drake family’s coffers.” She nods and bites her lip, and Tim continues, his voice softening. “You’ll be able to head to Kandor with Dana within the week, and Dana’s sister will be waiting to welcome you both. Everything will be fine.” 

The carriage is going up an incline now, and they only have moments before they reach the gates. Tim swallows down useless platitudes and promises, instead turning to hug Steph lightly, careful not to crush the velvet paneling on his front. Stephanie only holds on tighter when he nearly pulls away as they come to a stop.

“I promise I’ll take care. I won’t throw away what you’ve done for me,” she whispers into his ear, voice hoarse but determined. “I have to repay you somehow, don’t I?”

“Taking care of the letter and staying safe is more than enough.” His voice cracks on the last syllable, and Steph grips his hand fast in acknowledgment.

The carriage driver knocks on the door, and they come apart hastily, Tim straightening his dress and robes to look appropriately regal as he fixes a calm expression on his face. There’s no time for mourning or tearful goodbyes, only moving forwards with the plan.

The driver assists him out of the cab, and he pretends not to see how Steph’s face crumples in his peripheral vision. Tim has to command attention now, and channel the mask of society manners his parents taught him, lest they both fall apart and throw a wrench in the proceedings. His spine straightens, he holds the skirts at his ankles, and he walks forwards alone until he is a few feet from the guards.

“I am Timothy Drake, child and heir of the late Jack Drake, Janet Lynn, and their surviving bonded mate Dana Winters. I have come to volunteer myself as the Divine Bride in place of Stephanie Brown. May I receive entrance into the temple?”

§~~~~~~ö~~~~~~Ö~~~~~~ö~~~~~§

Tim knows some of the God he is to be given to, but not as much as he wishes. He is one of the eldest in the Pantheon and one of several Dread Gods referred to by title instead of name. His titles include Father of Demons, Earth-shaker, Ruler of the Beneath, Lord of the Sands, King of Shadows, Devil Star, Plague-maker, and last but not least Ra’s al Ghul, as he was referred to by the people who first brought his worship to these lands from the deserts centuries ago.

His cult is one of the oldest, richest, and most extensive, rumored to have existed since long before the great Fall that ruined the world. And not so secretly, to a one they are trained warriors who are extremely dangerous to cross.

Ra’s al Ghul had been prayed to by some in previous years; when an eclipse hid the moon on the day of Tim’s birth, again when the great earthquake shook Gotham in two in his childhood, and yet again when the Blood plague ravaged the lands and sickened people and livestock alike in droves. Tim faintly remembers one of the servants praying over an amulet of the Demon’s Eye when he was sick, writhing and crying blood in his bed as his body burned with fever that only broke after several days of agony.

(Tim remembers much better how his late Mother gave him the amulet of the Bat, God of Night and Protector of Children. The pendant never warmed with his body heat, iron and black obsidian exuding a pleasant chill that was the only comfort in that miserable week. He wonders sometimes if Janet knew the plague would take her instead, and gave him something to remember her by.

Leaving the amulet with Dana was one of the hardest parts of leaving his home behind, but bringing the symbol of one God into the sanctuary of another would be frowned upon.)

It stands to reason that Ra’s al Ghul, who is the most powerful of several Gods that can command the spirits that bring plagues upon mortals, will be the one offered a sacrifice to hopefully appease his anger and end the resurgence of the Blood plague. His sacrifices are usually the burning of harvest surplus or the slaughter of prized livestock, but every half a century or so a crisis arises that compels his priesthood to selects a person to be left at his altar, either a strong young alpha prisoner cut and bled to death or a beautiful unmarried omega to be a Bride. 

The God was offered an alpha condemned for murder during the first wave of the Blood Plague and accepted the sacrifice, but remained unmoved when a fresh one was offered this time. As such, all young unmarried omegas in Gotham were bade to come to the temple so that one could be chosen as the newest Bride, and all of them gave their names to be written down on scraps of parchment and placed in a massive green-glazed urn. 

Despite all the pretty words and assurances of how this is for the good of all, the dread was palpable to everyone present. No one knows for certain what becomes of the mortals left to the mercy of the Lord of Shadows, only that anyone left at the subterranean altar overnight vanishes before morning comes, and usually the disaster that prompted the sacrifice will halt.

While the stories state that the Father of Demons demands a beautiful young omega bride, for all anyone knows he _eats_ them, as some say that the Dread Gods delight in the taste of human flesh.

Tim wonders which outcome is more likely. He fears that it’s the latter.

Tim’s blood has been cold in his veins from the moment when Stephanie was selected by the head priest, and the two days from then until now have been a flurry of panicked planning as he’s done his best to think of a suitable way to handle this crisis. Tim wrote letter after letter, signed hundreds of papers and stamped them all with the family seal, eating and drinking at the desk and only stopping to catch brief naps. At the end of it all, he only barely had the time to wipe himself down and change his clothes before the dawn began to break and it was time to leave.

Tim’s already lost enough. His mother, his father, several of his friends, all dead of the Blood plague or of the rioting and resulting fires. Dana is pregnant and ill with grief after witnessing her bondmate’s death, but Tim refuses to send her back to a hall for the Mad, much less with the plague running rampant in such places. Phillip Marin, one of his late father’s associates, has been attempting to chip away at the money from the Drake estate as his parents’ merchant enterprise crumbles.

Tim’s seen the man eyes following both him and Dana in a way that sends chills down his spine. For all that the Drake family’s wealth is vast, they are still omegas in a world where that can leave them vulnerable. If either Tim or Dana remarry, a cruel and clever spouse could turn the other out and take the reigns of the House without society caring a whit.

He’s arranged to block Marin and his cohorts from his family’s money and from access to Dana and his unborn sibling. To be safe, he sent a messenger bird to Dana’s sister and set up safe travels and a place to stay. He finished his will last night, and the barrister will honor the changes, given how long the older woman has worked with the family and how little respect she holds for Marin.

Everything is going to Dana and her unborn child, excluding a stipend for Stephanie and her mother and another for the Ives family to finance Sebastian’s medical treatments and continued education. They’ll all be cared for in his absence, and hopefully the Plague will no longer be a problem.

It should be enough. Enough to ensure that this _means_ something.

All the while, Stephanie has been using her seamstress’s skills to alter Janet’s wedding dress to look suitable, as her presence in the Drake’s manor was explained by her work. She hemmed it and took it in to fit Tim’s slimmer and more angular frame, replacing moth-eaten lace and velvet paneling with fresher, brighter material and repairing the shabbier bits of twenty-year-old embroidery with gold thread. Her fingers cramped and bled and she was forced to get assistance from the maid and her daughter to finish in time, but the efforts (and the distraction) paid off.

As Tim smoothes his hand over velvet, he prays that both of their efforts will pay off, and that the Dark God will make it quick. As much as he admires the great Oracle and her bravery in the face of a slow and torturous death at the hands of chaos spirits, Tim is not sure he could quite follow the example set by the Goddess of Secrets before her ascension.

§~~~~~~ö~~~~~~Ö~~~~~~ö~~~~~§

The priests accept his reasons for volunteering all too readily and bring him inside, taking him past scurrying droves of faceless black-clad novices that rush to obey the barked commands of veiled disciples in deep green. There is no time to quibble when the ceremony is set for sundown that day, and a willing sacrifice of a well-to-do unmarried omega is likely preferable to an unwilling commoner in the eyes of the divine. 

Tim goes with them through the halls with his head held high and the faces of his loved ones firmly in his mind’s eye. 

Much to his embarrassment, he has to be ritually bathed. Tim endures the touch of three beta priestesses as they help him scrub his body from head to toe, and a fourth thoroughly washes his hair. Thankfully he’s pulled from the tub and dried quickly, still feeling rather mortified despite how perfunctory they are being.

The priestesses anoint his clean skin with richly scented oils, rubbing them in until his skin shimmers. He has to wait to dress until the oil has soaked in, and numbly sits naked on a wooden stool. In that time his is braided elaborately back and pinned in place, and kohl is used to trace his eyes and darken his eyelashes.

Tim mistakenly assumes that he will finally be allowed to dress once more and get on with it and goes to stand, but one of the priestesses brings a large bowl and brushes from another room and he has to restrain a groan. Paint is applied to Tim’s nude body in floral patterns, dotted with glyphs that make his eyes swim when he looks at them directly for more than a few moments. 

It takes nearly an hour more until they are satisfied, and then powder is used to set the paint. Only afterwards is he finally, joyously re-dressed and led from the bathing chamber. 

Tim is brought to an open air courtyard near the entrance to the labyrinthine caves where the Altar is hidden. He is given a glass of spiced wine to drink and a tray of fruits and delicately sliced meat to eat with it, and does his best to finish them quickly but neatly. Afterwards his hands and mouth are wiped with a wet cloth, and he is made to kneel on the sun-warmed black marble of the floor as priests speak blessings in the Old language and place an amulet of Ra’s around his neck.

The heavy gold medallion with the Demon’s Eye hangs down his chest, the massive emerald at its center directly over his heart. The gem seems to glow faintly from within, but Tim dismisses that as a trick of the light.

From the corner of his eye, Tim can see his reflection in the polished bronze that coats large sections of the courtyard’s walls. He is a vision to behold in a robe of wine-red velvet over pale gold satin, shot through with gold embroidery. The scattered seed pearls along the hems shine bright against the lace in funerary black.

More than suitable to go to his death in, Tim thinks. He can allow himself maudlin gallows humor in the privacy of his own mind.

It is both too soon and too long when the priests finally finish. His legs and feet have long gone numb and his mouth is dry again after so long sitting in the warmth of the late spring sun. Tim is guided to his feet, handed a censer of burning incense, and instructed to follow as they descend into the caves to complete the rites.

He can’t turn back now, and he will see this through to the end no matter how he wants to flee. 

Tim lets himself take one last glance back at the world of the living before he proceeds forwards. The sun is just beginning to set, painting the expanse of the heavens with shades of pink and orange as the faint pinpricks of stars appear in the slowly darkening blue above. It’s so beautiful his heart aches, and he holds back tears as he tears his gaze away.

§~~~~~~ö~~~~~~Ö~~~~~~ö~~~~~§

The caves are dark and damp, but less chilled than Tim anticipated. He is kept in the middle of the procession, between the four priestesses who prepared him and followed by row upon row of chanting novices. The candles they carry cast flickering shadows over slick stone, and the floors shine with water. It’s as if they are walking through the maw of some great beast of legend.

Tim steps carefully to avoid splashing water onto his dress, but there’s only so careful he can be. He nearly slips once, and the tallest of the priestesses surreptitiously catches him by the elbow to right him. She doesn’t look at him or otherwise acknowledge the misstep.

He can’t tell how long it takes for them to arrive. Time is meaningless here as they slowly but steadily descend further below the surface. Stalactites and stalagmites loom out of the gloom like pillars of bone, caging them in as they walk past a sluggish dark river. The only sound comes of hushed footsteps, sputtering candles, and dripping water. His nose is caught between the rich heady scent of the incense and the scented oils as it contrasts with the musty smell of wet stone. 

It feels like an eternity passes before the tunnel extends into the entrance to a larger cave. The procession files in and fans out around the chamber, and Tim is startled to realize it’s quite possibly the largest...room that he’s ever set foot in. There’s a vast underground lake tinted green and feeding into a waterfall that throws up a faint cloud of mist, presumably the source of the river they passed earlier. More stalactites and stalagmites form massive pillars around the sides, but the floor in the center is worn smooth from the centuries of visits by the devotees of Ra’s al Ghul’s cult. 

Towards the rear of the room is an altar hewn from the ghostly grey-white limestone that forms most of the caverns. It’s been scrubbed clean of the blood from the last dead alpha, and adorned with golden chains to bind the wrists and ankles of sacrifices. Tim swallows dryly as he continues to walk forwards, his ears ringing and heart pounding as he approaches the place where he is to meet his end.

There are four braziers surrounding the altar, each filled with unlit coal and dried flower petals and positioned at what Tim assumes are the cardinal directions. The four priestesses that had been flanking Tim break away to light them with the candles they carry. The shark crackle of the lit coals nearly makes him flinch. He digs his nails into his palms and continues forward with his face a mask of calmness he certainly doesn’t feel. 

Tim turns around as directed, and two of the high priests lift him onto the altar together. His hands and ankles are enclosed by the manacles with care, and then they step back, bowing respectfully to the Cult Head as they approach. Tim can’t tell their sex or caste behind the hideous mask of a snarling beast and the elaborate gold and black robes they wear, and he suspects this is by design; the face and physical form of Ra’s al Ghul’s highest mortal representative does not matter, only their devotion to duty.

They remain silent, stepping to the foot of the altar and placing the most delicate black veil Tim has ever seen over the omega’s head, before turning to face the gathered cult members that stand before them.

The cultists kneel as one, and once they have settled into place the Cult Head begins to address the crowd of disciples in a low, raspy voice that is clearly rarely used.

“We have gathered here to honor our Master, He who guided our forebears through the dark for untold lifetimes. We honor Him, in His wisdom and power.”

“We honor Him,” they repeat in low murmurs that echo off the cavern walls like distant thunder. The novices bow deeply, while the older priests and priestesses dip their heads and extend the candles held in their cupped hands.

“We offer Him a gift at the behest of those who rule this land. An omega of good standing and dutiful spirit has stepped forward to be presented before Him. May He smile upon us.”

“May He smile upon us.”

“We praise our Master in His infinite majesty, and pray that our offerings this day please Him. May He find our efforts worthy, and show favor to His humble servants upon this plane.”

“May He find us worthy.” This time, everyone bows low to the floor, and holds position for ten counts before straightening.

“All that we do is for Him. We devote ourselves to his vision, and have faith in his guidance. May His new bride please him.”

The Cult Head turns to face Tim once more, and this time bows facing him, bending at the waist.

“May He be pleased,” the disciples chant in unison with the Cult Head.

Tim is...Tim is torn between hysterical laughter and vomiting. He’s never been fond of elaborate rehearsed ceremonies like this, and something about the fervent, slavish devotion displayed here sickens him to the core. He can only hope that his face doesn’t reflect his unease.

The cultists all stand once more, and at last begin to move about again. Novices bring forth bundles of fresh white jasmine flowers and stack them around the altar. The priestesses lay bundles of other offerings around where Tim sits, and the priests switch back to chanting in the Old language while standing in a circle around the cavern. The air is becoming charged with a terrible energy, and Tim forces himself to be still and silent as the stone.

A golden bowl is offered to the Head Cultist by the youngest looking novice, a wiry beta girl who can’t be much older than twelve. The Head removes one of their gloves to reveal a gnarled, wrinkled hand, and coats their index finger in the liquid. Tim’s pretty sure it’s blood. He morbidly wonders if it’s animal or human, but decides that he’s likely better off not knowing the answer.

The Cult Head approaches again, silent and imposing as can be, and lifts the veil on Tim’s face. Tim nearly recoils in horror as the red liquid is used to mark a glyph on his forehead, then on the back of each of his palms and the tops of his feet where Tim’s molded leather slippers don’t cover his skin. Tim can smell the rusty scent of blood, and has to grit his teeth to avoid protesting and interrupting the ritual proceedings.

The Head dips their fingers in the bowl once more, and continues anointing him with blood as Tim resists the urge to scramble away. Additional marks are made from beneath each eye down to his chin, mimicking the tracks of tears. It reminds Tim all too starkly of the way the Plague made him cry blood when he contracted it years before. Finally, his lips are painted with it, and the Head Cultist deems him satisfactory. 

“With the blood of this lamb, this mortal is marked as His to own and to do with as He sees fit. May He be satisfied.”

“May he be satisfied!” The cultists repeat once more, much louder this time than previously. The walls echo it back until it seems like the clamor of thousands. Tim breathes through his nose and does his best not to focus on the blood.

“May our Master find you to be most favorable, Timothy Drake.” The Cult Head addresses him directly, and Tim’s eyes widen momentarily in surprise. He didn’t expect the Head to know his name, much less to use it. “Your bravery and faith shall be honored, and your name remembered with reverence.”

It’s an odd statement to make. Nobody tends to remember the names of sacrifices unless they make good enough martyrs for political purposes or notedly ascend to divinity by the grace of a God. Still, Tim bites his tongue and nods, lowering his gaze in what he hopes passes for demure humility.

He wishes they would just hurry up and leave him here for their Dread Lord already.

The veil is lowered over his face again, and everyone moves away from the altar. There’s another round of prayer, low chanting that sounds increasingly fervent. It rises higher and higher, until the priestesses and younger novices release horrific wails. The hairs on the back of Tim’s neck are standing on end. The feeling of the air thickens further, nearly choking Tim as it catches in his throat.

After the wailing echoes fade, all is silent once more, and the cultists return to business. The coals in the braziers are doused with water from the lake, hissing and sputtering as they steam. The procession re-forms, and finally, _finally,_ the disciples begin to file out. The last to leave is the Head Cultist, regal and collected as they retrace their steps to the surface, where night has surely fallen by now.

Tim is left alone in the oppressive silence with no light but the smoking censer in his hands.

§~~~~~~o~~~~~~0~~~~~~o~~~~~§

The incense in the censer is nearly burnt to embers, the only light remaining in the pitch black. 

Tim doesn’t bother to guess how long he’s been here, only counts his breaths and tries to calm his racing heartbeat. His thoughts are whirring around his head, nothing left to distract the youth from the full truth of his circumstances.

When will the Dread God come? Will he come? Will Tim still be here in the morning, a failed sacrifice who doomed them all? Or is the deity simply occupied elsewhere, and ready to descend at any moment?

There is nothing to do but wait and wonder.

Tim’s natural scent is finally beginning to come through once more, sharp citrus tempered by warm sugar blending with the strong cinnamon-y fragrance of the oils. It blends well enough with the frankincense in the burner, and the cloying jasmine blossoms. But not quite enough to hide the faint iron-copper tang of the dried blood beneath it all.

He doesn’t immediately take note of the mist from the waterfall thickening, but Tim certainly does notice when it begins to spread around the cavern, concealing much of the chamber in a thick fog. It starts to glow with a foreboding green-gold light. The energy in the air is curling around him, pressing against him like wolves circling a wounded deer.

He is no longer alone here, and all the more nervous for it.

Tim can feel that he’s being watched, a heavy gaze examining him from veiled head to slippered feet. He is still as a startled rabbit, not even daring to breathe for a long moment as the Dread God contemplates what has been left in offering. It drags on and on, until he’s forced to breathe again or to faint, and the godly aura takes on a sense of detached amusement.

Tim has never felt so small and helpless as he does now, and he _hates_ the feeling with every fibre of his being. Something rises in his chest, angry and heated and temporarily washing away the growing numbness of fear.

“Are you going to show yourself, or will you continue to lurk like a brigand?”

He doesn’t quite realize he voiced it aloud until his mouth closes. Abruptly, the warmth washes away, leaving him frozen inside. 

_What has he done?!_

For a moment, all is still, as if time itself has frozen. Then deep, terrible laughter rumbles through the cavern, resonating in his bones like a thunderclap.

Tim is beyond shocked at himself, and terrified he’s about to die, but he refuses to cower and shame himself. He takes a deep breath and stares forwards, fortifying himself even as part of him gibbers in abject terror. It is his time, and he’s determined to go out dignified with his head held high. He can only hope that he’ll enter the afterlife in quick fashion.

“Well, well. What a delightful surprise has been left for me,” the God purrs, voice deep and smooth as the black water of the lake. “There are very few who would dare speak to me so insolently, even among the Gods. It is most…amusing.”

Tim feels something brush against him, almost as if someone had just trailed their fingers over his shoulders. He restrains a startled yelp only by biting his tongue, thoroughly unnerved and anticipating worse to come. It seems Ra’s al Ghul likes to toy with his food.

The mist begins consolidating in the center of the cavern, swirling in strange patterns and twisting in on itself. At the same time, there are more spectral sensations, faint touches to his ankles and hair and throat. Tim watches and waits in tense silence, not even daring to wonder what will come next.

Slowly, slowly, the shape of an enormously tall man begins to form, so large that his head must surely be brushing the stalactites that hang from the roof of the cavern. The Dread God allows no paintings or statues, so Tim was not certain what to form to expect he would take. The youth is unsure whether to be relieved or wary that the God is taking on a humanoid shape.

Ra’s al Ghul’s chosen form has bronze skin that glows from within, a nose like the beak of an eagle, piercing green eyes, a carefully trimmed beard like a politician’s. His hair shines like burnished silver, rising into two peaks above his head like the crest of an owl..or the horns of a beast. He’s clad in black and gold armor and an ostentatious green cloak lined with downy white feathers, looking for all the world like a showy old general with far too great a liking for his dramatic appearance. 

The latter thought helps somewhat, to picture this powerful Old God as someone fantastically vain and all too interested in impressing their glory upon everyone that is unfortunate enough to encounter them. Tim nearly laughs aloud but thinks better of it at the last second.

The God begins advancing towards him, gait as smooth and silent as a predator on the hunt. It’s enough to abruptly kill the spark of amusement in Tim’s chest, faster than the chilled water doused the coals earlier. Now is no time for jests or humor.

“Tell me, boy, what brings you to be offered to me like this? Perhaps your irreverent wit?” He cocks his head to the side, unnaturally green eyes boring into Tim’s violet.

“There is a plague upon the lands, causing more misery than I can describe. Your cult was petitioned to bring an end to it, and determined you may be convinced to end it if you were offered a bride, my Lord.” It’s highly unlikely that the God is truly that oblivious to why Tim is sitting here on this thrice-damned altar surrounded by other offerings, but best to try and convince the divine power not to burn him to ash and to fulfill his entire purpose in being here.

“And so you were chosen as a gift by my disciples? You certainly aren’t the meek little thing they would usually give me for these purposes.” There’s a faint mocking edge to his voice that makes Tim bristle.

“I chose to offer myself,” he snaps. Then he has to restrain the urge to cover his disobedient mouth with his hand. “Your cult was more than pleased that I volunteered, and so I am here, a gift to your Divine self.”

The God stares at him contemplatively. “Is that so?” He asks. “You _volunteered,_ rather than being selected and forced to leave your life behind?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Well then. What a rare occurrence. Most mortals are too busy being concerned for their own survival, desperate to lengthen their petty, short lives at nearly any cost.”

“I didn’t come here happily, my Lord. I did this because it must be done.”

Ra’s clicks his tongue, sneering down at him.

“I rarely concern myself with affairs of the human race anymore,” the God states, looking as imperious as can be. “As a whole, most mortals are rather boring at best and irritating at worst to one who has existed as long as I. Still, I suppose every few centuries one of you manages to be worthy of some grain of attention,” he says.

Abruptly the God is standing before him, roughly human-sized if still unusually tall. The spectral hands pull back Tim’s veil, baring his face to the God’s scrutiny. Ra’s takes Tim’s chin in hand, gazing directly into his eyes.

The lurid, glowing green of his irises is hypnotic, nearly pulling Tim under as his mind starts to drift. So green, so strange...so enrapturing.

That heated feeling returns, nudging him and making him resist the pull. Does he really want to spend his last moments in a haze, unable to know if the God will take the offer and end the Blood Plague? How dare he not stay focused, to ensure this was worth the effort at all? He refuses to be so easily enthralled.

“Is that really necessary, ?” He growls, and this time the heat doesn’t fade away when Ra’s’s attention focuses sharply. “I would rather you didn’t toy with my mind.”

“How very curious…” The God muses, almost as if he was thinking aloud rather than speaking directly to Tim.

Tim refuses to look away, even as the God’s face splits into an unnerving smile.

“Yes, this is a most welcome surprise. How careless of him...but no matter. You’re marked as mine now, and nothing he does can change that.”

Before Tim can protest or question what Ra’s means, the mists reappear, and everything vanishes in a wash of green-gold light.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been extremely fun, if a bit frustrating to work on. Also, expect accompanying art from silver-snow-draws on tumblr!


End file.
